Sacraments in Scarlet
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: Two priests are murdered and Jane implements his most outrageous "brilliant plan" yet. But he might just get himself killed in the process...
1. Chapter 1

**Sacraments in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 1**_

Patrick Jane frowned.

He checked the clock on the brick wall above the windows – 9:09 am. He was only 9 minutes late, rather good for his standards, and as far as he knew, there hadn't been a case come in over night, at least he hadn't received a call. He strolled into the office proper, hands clasped behind his back, eyes roving over the activity of the Serious Crimes Unit. It was, as usual, bustling with agents answering phones, conferring over coffee, pouring over computers, a regular hub of energy and activity. But the three desks he was concerned with and their subsequent senior office were empty, and neatly so.

They were gone.

He frowned again.

"Albert," he turned to the middle-aged heavy-set man with tight black curls and big black moustache. "Where's Lisbon?"

"Don't know," said Albert. He hadn't looked up. Hmm. _Lying._

He moved on to another desk, a middle-aged heavy-set woman in a dark pantsuit and big blonde hair. "Miranda?"

"Me neither." Also lying.

This was fascinating. "Gabe?"

"Nope."

"Lakeesha?"

"Sorry, Jane. No clue." But Lakeesha did manage to glance up at him, too smoothly. "Maybe talk to Minelli. He might know something."

He smiled at her. At least she had been trying.

The morning sun was high already, streaming through the large windows that flanked the room, and he stood for a long moment there, in the walkway between the desks. It was obvious what had happened, from the moment Albert had lied Jane knew, but that didn't make it easier to swallow. He knew it would happen at some point, was surprised actually that it hadn't already, but finally, after many years as consultant for the_ California Bureau of Investigations, _there had been a case that someone, probably Department Chief Virgil Minelli, had deemed '_un-Janeable.'_ In other words, a case just too sensitive to involve the particular skills and abilities of Patrick Jane.

He wandered over to Cho's desk. Of all of them, Cho would be the one to leave the clue, the hint, the snitch, but there was nothing. Neat as a pin. Except for a pile of tangled paperclips in the wastebasket. Even Cho. Must be serious.

He should have felt betrayed. If he were a typical consultant he would have, but there had never been anything typical about him, not even as a child, so the insult bounced off him the way a paper airplane bounced off a brick wall. There was no malice here, just politics, but really, he smiled to himself. They ought to have known better.

"Hey Jane," it was Lakeesha. "We're working on a kidnapping. You can help us if you'd like."

"Yeah," sputtered Gabe. He was a beanpole, who liked to wear sloganed T-shirts under his jackets. And hats. Oh yes, he loved to wear porkpie hats. Jane had never understood why people wore porkpie hats. "We could use all the help we can get."

Clichés meant either discomfort or lack of intelligence, and Gabe was no slouch, even with the hat problem. Jane promptly and without response spun on his heel and left the room, the others exchanging glances between them in silence.

They went back to work.

It was a few minutes before they heard the squeaking.

"What the – " Albert, the middle-aged heavy set fellow swung around at his desk. "Hey! That – that's from the lounge!"

"Oh yes, I know," huffed Patrick Jane, returning to the office pushing a large 50 inch screen TV still bolted onto its black melamine console. It rolled half-heartedly on broken wheels, the electrical cord dangling behind like a tail. "It's a long way and this is rather heavy."

"You can't take that," muttered Miranda. She fancied herself a decorator. "You can't do that. Besides, you're scratching the floor."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

He paused in his quest as he and the TV passed Rigsby's desk, whereupon he stopped pushing and opened the top right hand drawer, removing a plastic baggie filled with peanuts. He slipped those into his pocket and went back to work.

And he pushed and shoved and huffed his load all the way to the big brown couch that was his home. It took him several minutes to set it up the way he preferred, the angle, the distance, all measurements calculated and when it was all said and done, he stood and observed for several more minutes. Then, he carefully removed his jacket, folded it over the back of the couch, flopped his body down, kicked up his feet, pulled out the peanuts and snagged the remote.

He turned on the local news.

He had time to pop only one mouthful of peanuts when he clicked it off, folded the baggie back into his pocket, and sprang off the couch. He grabbed his jacket, slipped it on and ambled out of the office, stopping only once to touch Gabe's shoulder.

"Put that thing back, will you," he smiled. "It's just too big. The feng shui's all wrong. The negative flow of energy is cramping my vibe…" and he disappeared out the door, practically bouncing all the way.

"Crap," sputtered Albert. "How does he do that?"

"He's psychic," said Gabe.

"He's weird," said Miranda. "Hot, but weird."

"I'm calling Lisbon," said Lakeesha. "He's on his way…"

_____________________________

The _Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament_ was stunning. A jaw-dropping piece of Spanish Architecture built in the mid-1800s, it towered above the surrounding community with white limestone domes, stained-glass arches and two bell towers. Columns, marble lintels, and sharp rooflines all spoke grandeur, reverence and history, and drew all eyes upwards to heaven.

There was a minor glitch in the heavenward gaze, however, that being the downward side of things, the squad cars and uniformed officers, the reporters and the yellow tape closing off three large rounded wooden doors. No most holy sacraments today.

Teresa Lisbon wondered if it was normal to feel guilty when one pulled up into the parking lot of a church, especially a church like this. It was as if that was part and parcel of the faith - the sin, the conviction, the penance, the atonement – all bound together, eternal and inseparable, like marble, limestone and stained glass. She had always felt some measure of guilt, even as a child, going through the rituals of communion, confirmation, confession. But this time was different, for there were two SUV's and only four agents, and the guilt was not spiritual, just personal. She had sinned, to be sure, but she was simply following orders. Somehow, she didn't believe that absolution would come any easier because of it.

Her cell phone rang as she got out of the car.

"Yeah, Lakeesha, what's up? He's what? How the hell – never mind. I don't want to know. Call Minelli. Tell him you tried. Thanks."

She swung around as the rest of her team filed out. "Cho, did you call him like I told you to?"

Cho met her stare. He never wavered. "No."

"You were supposed to tell him we had the day off."

"He wouldn't have believed me."

She grit her teeth, poked a finger into his chest. "Well, he's on his way. You will take the responsibility if he ends up getting the entire State of California excommunicated, understand?"

"Yes, boss."

And she stomped up the high cathedral steps, flashing her badge to pass the cops at the door.

Cho followed, Rigsby and Van Pelt falling in beside.

"How did he find out?" asked Rigsby. "We left nothing. Lisbon made sure of it. She even took off the code you left in paper clips on your keyboard."

"That was a good code."

"He's psychic, honestly," answered Van Pelt.

"Genetically superior," said Cho. "He's a mutant."

That seemed about right and together they headed into the deep interior of the _Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament._

__________________________________________

"Wow," murmered Van Pelt, as they stepped into the cathedral and out of the sunlight. "This is so…so..."

"Old," said Rigsby.

"Well yeah, but, but look at it. It's beautiful. It's like you're in another time, another place. Like Rome or France or something…"

If Jane had been there, he would have complimented Grace Van Pelt on the accuracy of her observations. While the outside of the cathedral was distinctly Spanish, the inside was a different matter entirely. Marble floors spliced with wood, high columned ceilings with ivory arches that spanned 12 feet apiece, scrolled wooden pews that could easily hold a thousand worshippers, multiple balconies and a towering curved ceiling that was painted, etched and carved like a Renaissance painting. The colours themselves whispered history, Egyptian golds, burnt oranges, sky blues, mossy greens, and white, the old antique historical white of the saints. Pillars and stained glass and doorways and rooms, the building went on and on. It was huge, and multi-layered and at its heart was a massive golden crucifix suspended from the ceiling, directly over an alabaster altar and baptismal bowl.

At the foot of the baptismal, directly under the golden feet of the Saviour, lay a priest in white robes, face down, most completely dead.

Lisbon was talking with Ted from Forensics, while two more white robed men stood nearby.

"Rev. Father Timothy Andreacci. 62 years old. Found this morning at approximately 5:45am by Fr. Meeks over there. Cause of death either cerebral ischemia or asphyxia, due to ligature strangulation. Just like the last one," said Ted, after the rest of Lisbon's team straggled up to meet her. He reached down with a white-gloved hand and rolled the body over. A balding man, barrel-chested and bearded, eyes bulging, face purple, neck constricted and raw, throat almost garroted with force, and dried blood congealed around his ears –

"Oh! His ears are gone," murmured Van Pelt.

"Yeah, cut off with a scalpel or something else small and very sharp. _Post mortal,_ most likely, but we'll confirm when we get him back to the lab. The last one lost his eyes. Now that was fierce."

Lisbon pulled on her own latex gloves, pulling back the folds around the man's throat. She frowned. "Odd marks…"

"Yeah," said Ted. "He's used some sort of textured wire. There are poly-coated resin traces in the wound, very similar to the first one, but we haven't finished running the tests."

"Any signs of sexual assault?"

"Haven't checked yet." Ted lowered his voice. "Thought I'd wait until I got him to the lab…"

"Hmm."

"Let me know when you're done. I want to swab the area under him…" And Ted moved away, leaving her to her team. She turned to bring them up to speed.

"So, this is the second priest from this parish in two weeks. Looks like the same MO. Father Angelino Ricci was found back over there in the Apse. His body was discovered 4 days ago at 6:30 in the morning by an altar boy. He'd been dead for 6 hours, and from the looks of Father Tim here, it's likely the same."

"Sacramento PD do the prelims on the first one?" Cho asked.

"Yeah, but when the call for this one came in, they called the DoJ. That's why we're here. Minelli want this wrapped up ASAP."

Rigsby shuffled his feet. "Should we wait for Jane? I mean, if he's on his way and all…"

Lisbon swung around on him. Even though she was much smaller, he took a step back. "Have you forgotten how to do your job? No? Good. Then I suggest you and Van Pelt take one of those priests, Cho and I will take the other, and if Jane shows up, we'll make sure he leaves. There's no way I'm crossing Minelli on this one, got it?"

"Um, boss?" It was Cho.

"What?"

He nodded his head. The two priests were walking together towards the cathedral entrance where another priest had just entered. The newcomer was all dressed in black, black suit, black shirt, black pinstriped waist-coat, and white collar. He was carrying an overnight bag over his shoulder, and when he reached out to shake the hands of the two approaching men, he smiled.

Teresa Lisbon closed her eyes.

Patrick Jane was in the building.

_**End of Chapter 1**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Sacrament in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 2**_

She was going to kill him.

She didn't know where, she didn't know when, but at some point, sometime, somehow, Teresa Lisbon was going to be charged, convicted and sentenced for the murder of Patrick Jane.

He was walking over to her and the CBI team with the two men she knew as Reverend Monsignors Jorge Father Alvarez and Father Dennis Meeks, both priests in residence, and his smile just kept growing bigger and bigger. He stuck out his hand.

"Agent Lisbon," he beamed. "Sorry I'm late. The flight from San Diego was delayed. Engine trouble I believe. The bird just couldn't get off the tarmac."

"Funny how that happens." She grit her teeth, squeezing his hand just a little too hard. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Ah well. But here I am." He turned to the team, enjoying their reactions. Honestly, they looked as if they were having as much fun as he was. "Wayne Rigsby, Welsh Presbyterian, hasn't set foot in a church in years except for weddings, baptisms and funerals. Grace Van Pelt, mother was a Methodist, father Dutch Reformed. Good Christian girl, if a little fundamental. Went on a mission trip to Mexico as a teen. Kimball Cho…"

Cho looked at him, perfectly deadpan. Jane clapped him on the arm. "Ah well, the persecuted church is growing in Asia. We can always hope…"

He swung back to Lisbon. "And Teresa Lisbon, of French-Irish descent, although people mistakenly believe she's Portuguese because of the name. She's one of us of course." _Non-practicing, _he mouthed to the priests. They nodded, understanding.

The older man named Alvarez was watching the interplay carefully. "Father Patrick says he has worked with your team and the CBI on many occasions. That he is in fact a consultant for the Department of Justice in cases such as these."

"Cases such as these…" growled Lisbon, green eyes smoldering.

"Oh yes," Jane raised his eyebrows. "Sensitive cases. Cases that involve expertise not common to the average state law enforcement official. As well as cases that might possibly have spiritual, paranormal or supernatural overtones."

"Supernatural?" It was Meeks now. A tall, lanky man, with short cropped graying hair, brown eyes and a deeply worn face. "I thought Father Tim was strangled?"

Hands behind his back, Jane turned to the priest. "Oh I never said it was supernatural. But three dead priests within two weeks in one parish? There are no such things as coincidences, I assure you."

"Three?!" Meeks again, clearly agitated.

"Forgive me, Fr. Patrick," Alvarez this time. "But you are mistaken. We have seen only two of our brothers murdered in a fortnight, not three."

Lisbon smirked, folded her arms across her chest.

"Ah yes," Jane nodded. "Fr. Timothy last night, Fr. Angelino four nights ago, and exactly two weeks to the day, Fr. Pius."

_Pius?_ Thought Lisbon. _Who the hell was Pius?_

Meeks waved his hands. "No, no, Fr. Pius was an old man, almost 92. He died most peacefully. In his sleep, God rest soul." And with that, he made the sign of the cross.

"Did he?" asked Jane. "Was there an autopsy?"

The priests looked at each other.

Jane smiled. "I thought not. So, if it's acceptable to my esteemed colleagues, I would like to take a quick look at the body…"

"No," said Lisbon.

"Women," Jane smiled. "And they wonder why we don't let them into the priesthood."

If it were any place other than a church, she would have decked him right then and there. Instead, she stiffly moved to one side, allowing him to pass. He strolled over to the baptismal where Ted was already pulling out the body bag. He gave a cursory glance at the dead man and waved to Ted to pull back the folds of his neck. Lisbon felt a rush of satisfaction. She had just done the same thing.

"Any resin," asked Jane.

"Yep. Black and red poly."

"Hmm. Have you swabbed under the body?"

"Not yet. Waiting to get the okay." He glanced at Lisbon, but Jane waved a hand.

"Oh by all means. Give the man back some dignity. Take him away and let's get on with this."

Perhaps, thought Lisbon, it wouldn't be so bad if she hit him in a church. She could go immediately to confession. There were plenty of priests around to help.

Jane stepped back and turned in a circle, scanning the area, then he looked up at the 6 pair of eyes trained on him. He smiled. "That's it. I'm done."

Lisbon raised her brows. "Alright, _Father,_ any theories?"

He grinned at her. "It's obvious, isn't it? He was strangled – "

"Brilliant."

"- with a rosary."

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes, well, the odd indentations in the flesh, the poly-resin fragments embedded in the skin, quite obvious. But you see, a normal rosary would snap at that kind of pressure, so I would say a rosary that was threaded with wire…" He walked over to the others. "Yes, a very fine, flexible wire. It serves almost as a garrote. Did you see how the throat was sliced in areas? Gruesome."

She ground her teeth. It made sense. "And the ears?"

"Oh post mortem. No blood. He was killed elsewhere and placed here, although there is no deliberate posing of the body…" Jane turned to look back as Ted zipped the bag. "Once Ted swabs the area, we'll be able to know for certain. Ligature strangulation is messy. Spit, saliva, epithelial cells everywhere, materials released from every orifice in the body…ick…" He made a face, then turned his gaze to the priests, the smile disappearing as he grew serious. "And there will be one more."

When there was no comment from any of the crowd, he seemed to feel the need to explain. If it had just been the team, he would have insisted on waiting for them to beg. He was being deliberately polite for the sake of the clergy. Professional. Deliberate. Sensitive.

"There's no way to check on Fr. Pius now, but Fr. Angelino had his eyes removed, yeh? And Fr. Tim his ears. That leaves the tongue."

"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil," said Lisbon.

"Precisely." He jabbed at her with a finger, then threw a grin at Cho. "Which is actually an ancient Confucian proverb, isn't it, Agent Cho? Perhaps there is an Asian connection after all."

"Cool," said Cho.

Jane grinned, clapped his hands together. "I'm sure the intrepid team from the CBI would love to continue their questioning, but I was wondering if there's a hotel you'd recommend nearby? I'd like to take my things and get settled before I start work…"

Fr. Alvarez shook his dark head. "Not at all, brother. You will be staying with us. We have three extra rooms now, if you are not the suspicious type." Without waiting for a response, he turned to Meeks. "Arrange for Pius' room to be made ready. We will not turn away one of our own, especially one who can be so helpful at such a terrible time."

Jane made a little bow. "I would be honoured. Agent Lisbon, Agents Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho, I'm sure I'll be talking to you soon." And he shouldered his overnight bag and followed Meeks across the marble floor towards a long hallway. But he turned before he disappeared, threw a smile and a little wave to Lisbon and then he was gone.

She turned back to Alvarez.

"I'll need to get a list of everyone who has regular access to the cathedral. Any staff, lay people, anyone with keys, etc. And we'll need to talk to everyone who has been here within the last 24 hours. Also, the personal and vocational histories of the dead men. All 3 if that's possible."

"Yes, yes, whatever you wish." Alvarez was still staring in the direction Jane had disappeared. "He is good at what he does, si? A regular Sherlock Holmes…"

Yes, Lisbon thought to herself, somehow, sometime, she was going to have to kill Patrick Jane.

_**End of Chapter 2**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Sacrament in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 3**_

_Califorrnia Bureau of Investigations_ Department Chief Virgil Minelli had a headache.

As he sat at his desk in the warm, overly sunny office, he stared at the 2 Tylenols in his hand and thought 2 just weren't enough. The whole bottle of Tylenol couldn't stop the migraine that was coming on, the migraine with the name of Patrick Jane. He popped them, washed them down with the water Shirley had brought in for him, and pressed the speed dial on his Blackberry. Teresa Lisbon picked up immediately.

"Technology is a mixed blessing, wouldn't you say, Agent Lisbon?"

"Sir?"

"_Technology, _Lisbon. Computers, televisions, Internet, Blackberries. Did you know my Blackberry gets news, Lisbon? Current events? Instant streaming, I think it's called."

"Yes sir."

"I was just watching the news on my Blackberry, Agent Lisbon. There are reporters covering the Cathedral, aren't there?"

"Yes sir."

"And as I'm watching the news covering the cathedral, this priest walks by the camera and into the church. Were you there, Agent Lisbon? Did this particular priest happen to bump into you during your investigations, Agent Lisbon?"

"Yes sir. He did, sir."

"And do you know _how_ this particular priest knew where you were today?"

"No sir."

"Technology, Agent Lisbon. The miracle of technology. He saw it on the news and figured it out."

"Yes sir."

"Lisbon," he pinched the bridge of his nose, dreading the next question. "Why is he dressed as a priest?"

"Um, I think he's going undercover, sir."

"Undercover?" The pounding in his head just got a lot worse. "Only cops and agents go undercover. He's neither a cop nor an agent. Doesn't he understand this?"

"I don't think so, sir."

"Alright. That's fine. I'm fine. It's amazing how much I've grown in the past few years. Grown, stretched, bent completely out of shape. So this is good for me. Do you know what else I'm thinking, Agent Lisbon?"

"No sir."

"I was thinking, Agent Lisbon, that it is in fact, _your_ ass on the line, not his. He's your dog. Keep him on a very short leash, do you understand?'

"Yes sir."

"One mess, one insult, one little international incident, and you will be the one with hell to pay, do you understand, Agent Lisbon?"

"Yes sir."

"Like I said. He's your dog. If he bites, shoot him."

"Yes sir."

"Good. I'm glad we had this little chat. I feel so much better now. Goodbye, Lisbon. Call me when you have something."

And he hung up before she could reply, dropped his head into his hands and waited for the migraine to hit.

_____________________________

Jane looked at the room that once belonged to Father Anthony "Pius" Bachynski and smiled. He really had had no idea what to expect from a priest's residence, kept imagining something the size of a closet with high stone walls, tiny windows, straw mattress on the floor. Something plucked right out of the middle ages. But, as he stepped inside and looked around, he realized that once again, life had managed to surprise him.

It was a good-sized suite, similar to a studio apartment, with white walls, large windows overlooking the cathedral grounds, comfortable furniture and a small living/cooking area, so that if a priest ever felt unsociable, he could stay holed up in his room indefinitely. Jane smiled to himself. Was it a sin to feel unsociable? And if so, what might be the penance?

The place had been cleansed of any last trace of Fr. Pius. Even the bookcase was empty, which was a pity, for books were some of the clearest indicators of preference and personality on the planet. You could profile a person in a heartbeat just by looking at the titles of their books.

"Lunch is at 12:00 sharp, Mass at 1:00. You'll hear the bells calling you down. Is there anything else you need, brother?"

Jane turned to look at Meeks. He was a nervous man, made more so by the recent events no doubt. But there was something more, a fear simply exacerbated by the killings, not causing it. Unlike Father Alvarez, who exuded calm, power and control, Meeks was a victim of something and it had warped him dramatically.

"Not at the moment, thank you Dennis. But I will need to ask you some questions soon, if I may."

"Of course."

The man made no move to leave.

_Fascinating,_ thought Jane. "Is there something I can help _you _with?"

"No, oh no, nothing…" Still standing, smiling with his mouth, not with his eyes.

"Close the door." The power of suggestion was beautiful. People were taught from infanthood to obey. All you needed was the correct tone, an air of authority, and people were putty in your hands. He put his overnight bag on the floor, turned to face the nervous priest and smiled.

"How old are you Dennis?"

"Um, 43."

"And how long have you been a priest?"

"Oh, um, I was ordained in 1998."

"Hm. Older. What made you decide so late in life?"

"Um, I couldn't decide… I was… I had a hard time."

"Life was hard for you, Dennis?"

"Um, yeah, you could say that…" He was looking around as if expecting someone, darting glances, little appeasing smiles.

"What are you afraid of, Dennis?"

"Afraid? I'm not afraid…"

"Tell me the truth, Dennis."

"Well, um, you said 'supernatural'."

"Does that bother you?"

"Well, yes." Meeks was twisting his fingers into knots. _Fascinating._ Not often a grown man acted out in this way. Jane usually had to pry. "Of course it does. Why wouldn't it? Have you… seen…_things?"_

"I'm not at liberty to discuss –"

"No, no, of course. Forgive me. I… I…It's just…"

Jane reached over and took the man's wrist. "You are in a safe place, Dennis. This room, this time, this conversation is safe and warm and comfortable. In fact, you are feeling remarkably calm, relaxed, at peace. The air in this room is holding you, lifting you up to a place where you can see yourself. You are not a part of yourself anymore and nothing can disturb you or threaten to take away that feeling. When you talk about your fears, you will feel strong, whole, one and a burden will be lifted from your shoulders. Then and only then will you join yourself again. You will remember your fears, but they will not have control over you unless you wish it. All you need do is take yourself by the wrist, like I'm doing right now, and you will have control. Do you understand, Dennis? Say it if you do."

"Um, yes…yes, I understand. I have control…" Meeks blinked several times as Jane let go, and he frowned as if trying to remember something. "What was I saying?"

"You're afraid of something. What is it?"

"Oh yes. I hear things. In the cathedral, at night. Noises. Strange noises. I've been reading online…"

"What have you been reading online, Dennis?"

"Occult practices and the Catholic Church. I have been wondering if this place is haunted."

_Interesting,_ thought Jane. "Maybe you shouldn't look into things like that, Dennis. It's making you nervous."

"Oh."

"How long have you been hearing noises?"

"About two months. I've told Fr. Alvarez and the bishop, but they both say it's nonsense."

"Do you think it's nonsense?"

"Me? Why are you asking me?"

"Why wouldn't I ask you, Dennis?"

Meeks shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I used to play with Ouiji boards when I was little. My sister read Tarot Cards. My mother used to say we were cursed. My whole life has been cursed. Do you believe in the supernatural, Fr. Patrick? Could I possibly be a priest and still be cursed?"

"Absolutely not," said Jane definitively. Frankly, he had no idea what the Catholic Church would say about such things. But the man was in agony and a key witness. Jane needed him stable. "What about Frs. Tim and Angelino? Did you tell them about these noises?"

"No. Fr. Alvarez told me not to bother them with such trivialities." Meeks sighed, and put a hand on his own wrist. Jane smiled.

"Are you happy here, Dennis?"

The man beamed, his entire body language changed. "Oh, I'm more happy here than I've ever been in my entire life. Fr. Alvarez is so kind, Frs. Tim and Angelino and Pius..." He breathed out, struggled for control, and won. "I'm going to miss them. They were so good to me. It's hard, losing people, isn't it, Father Patrick?"

"Yes, Dennis. Yes, it is." Jane looked at him again, almost as if seeing him for the first time. A man easy to dismiss, but wrongly so, as he was a touchstone, so raw and unprotected with his own emotions that he just drew them out of all those around him. He didn't even know he was doing it.

Jane liked him instantly.

Meeks sighed, ran his hands along his white robes. "Oh, I forgot to take these off. I need to go get changed." He smiled at Jane. "I'm feeling better now. Thank you for listening." He opened the door, turned back for a moment. "You are not Franciscan, are you, Fr. Patrick? Or a Dominican or a Jesuit? What is your Order?"

Jane grinned. "My Order doesn't exist."

Meeks' dark eyes grew wide. "A Carolinian? You are a Carolinian? I thought they were a myth."

"They are. You watch too many movies, Dennis."

And Meeks practically bolted from the room.

Jane shook his head and moved over to sit on the edge of the bed. The bed of a dead man. Pius _had_ died in his sleep. That was true, it had just been too good to pass up. Even Lisbon had been flustered. Always keep them guessing. He lay back and stretched out, as if it were his couch, let his mind go over the sequence of events, up and out and over the entire scene, again and again and again.

He never even heard the bells calling him down at noon.

_**End of Chapter 3**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Sacrament in Scarlet **

_**Chapter 4**_

Teresa Lisbon ground her teeth but said nothing. She and Van Pelt were being ushered into the office of Rev. Monsignor Jorge Father Alvarez, instead of the rooms of the slain priests. Apparently, women were not allowed in the male quarters at any time when a priest was in residence. Even the cleaning staff for that wing was male.

No matter. She had sent Rigsby and Cho off on the rooms detail. She and Van Pelt could handle the priests.

"Please excuse my curiosity," began Alvarez as he took his seat behind a huge and intricately carved mahogany desk. "But we had other police officers around after Father Angelino's death. And now you must go over the same ground, as it were, all over again. That does not seem productive."

Lisbon took a seat, motioned for Van Pelt to do the same.

"One homicide would routinely be handled by the local precincts. The Sacramento PD would have jurisdiction, but two, with similar MOs –"

"_Modus Operandi?"_

She grinned. Everyone was a TV cop nowadays. Minelli had been right. Technology was a mixed blessing.

"Yes sir. But with two or more, the local precinct always has the option to call in the state, that's us, especially when there are extenuating circumstances."

"Sensitive. That is what your Father Patrick called it."

"Oh, he's not _mine_, ooh no," she said, grinning and shaking her head. "But I promise we will be most sensitive during our investigations. Agent Van Pelt here will be looking into their clerical histories…"

"Yes, I have Father Angelino's right here." He slid an archaic manila folder towards Van Pelt. It was so thick papers were spilling out. "The parish clerk is accessing Father Tim's records as we speak."

Van Pelt looked up, aghast. "Don't you have records on computer?"

Alvarez smiled. "Only some. The church is in the process of modernizing, but some things take time."

Lisbon turned back to Alvarez. "I do need to ask you some questions if I may?"

"Please do."

"How long have you personally known Father Tim and Father Angelino?"

"Angie and I met in seminary in Santa Barbara, oh a long way back, in 1969. We studied together for 4 years and did our placements at _Our Mother of the Holy Annunciation_ for another 4, until 1977. Father Tim I met during that time."

"So you three have some history together…"

The man laced his fingers across his desk. "The Vocation of the Holy Priesthood has fallen out of favour in these last decades, Agent Lisbon. It would seem only natural that 3 young men from the same part of the same state, all pursuing the same marginalized career would cross paths from time to time."

She pursed her lips. He was defensive. "Doesn't that worry you, Father?"

He cocked his head. "Why should I worry?"

"Well, not only have two of your parish priests been murdered within the last week, but apparently two men whom you've had a history with for almost 40 years. If Jane…if Father Patrick is right, and there is a third homicide in the wings, what if that third is you?"

He seemed to think this over for a few moments.

"God appoints the hour at which all men will die. If it is to be my time, then worry will not add one hour to that time, will it, Agent Lisbon?" He smiled calmly.

Smooth, she thought. Very smooth. Either he believed it to the core of his being, or it was rehearsed.

There was a knock at the door, and a young man entered, carrying yet another ancient manila folder, stuffed to bursting with papers.

"Ah, Derek. Please give them to this lovely young lady here. Thank you for your diligence."

And the young man dropped the stack on top of the other. He smiled at her. Van Pelt sank lower in her seat.

Lisbon smiled, regrouped and returned to her questions.

_________________________________

_The old man nudged him with his shoe. You're too young to be sleeping all day, son, and he smiled. Most of his teeth were missing, but it was a nice smile. He nudged him again. Get up, kiddo. There's work to do._

Patrick Jane opened his eyes.

He sat up quickly and glanced around the room. No clock. He glanced down at his wrist – cursed that too – no watch. This was impossible. He had fallen asleep. He never fell asleep during the day, rarely ever at night, and never without the aid of sleeping pills, a half bottle of Scotch or the constant soothing drone of conversation at work. It just didn't happen to him, and what was even odder still, he couldn't remember a single nightmare.

He rubbed his face with his hands and stood up, trying to gauge from the afternoon sun what time it was. Probably close to 4:00, he wagered. He'd been sleeping for 5 hours. Impossible. He wondered if the team was still here. Quickly, he headed for the door, paused to look back at the bed, the bed where Fr. Anthony "Pius" Bachynski had died.

He had slept like the dead.

He shook his head and charged out into the hall.

____________________________________

He heard their voices from inside one of the rooms. He knocked once and popped his head inside the door.

"Boo."

Rigsby and Cho swung around, the larger man breaking into a huge smile. "Father Patrick, come in, come in!"

Jane obliged, closing the door behind him. He ambled over to the pair, grinning like a schoolboy caught red-handed, palms spread out wide. "Peace be with you, my children."

"That's just wrong," said Cho.

"No way! It's the best!" Rigsby bounded over to the consultant, threw a few fake punches, jock-style. "Lisbon almost blew a gasket! I've never seen her so pissed!"

"She was perturbed, wasn't she?" Jane grinned again. "Oh, it was well worth it. I had no idea going "undercover" could be so much fun."

"Sorry we couldn't tell you though."

"I left you a clue." Cho again, shuffling his feet.

"Ah, the paperclips."

"It was a code."

"It must have been impressive."

"Yeah," said Cho. "A masterpiece of cryptology."

Rigsby whacked Jane on the arm. "So where'd you get this? _Priests 'R' Us_ or something?"

"Oh wouldn't you like to know? I'll tell you for a dollar."

Rigsby frowned, debating.

Cho rolled his eyes.

Jane grinned. "Find anything?"

The pair turned back to the room. It was similar in style to Fr. Pius' room, suite-like, but hadn't been sanitized of personality yet. There were clothes in the laundry hamper, papers and letters and postcards scattered on his desk, and books piled in every corner and on every horizontal surface. Jane allowed his eyes to wander over the spines and covers of the books. Spy novels and mysteries, a few westerns. The guy was a classic.

"Have you checked his computer?" Jane now, eying up the Mac-book perched on the desk.

"Not yet," said Rigsby. "We're taking it in for the techies."

"Hmm." As he muttered, he wandered over to the bed, lifting up the pillows, checking underneath the mattress. "Did you check out Angelino's room?"

"Yeah. Same as this," Cho grunted. "Better books."

Jane grinned as he dropped to the floor, reached under the bed, along the metal underside of the bed frame.

Rigsby edged over, watching him. "You actually gonna stay here, Jane?"

"Yes." Jane rose, dusted himself off, moved to the bookcases. "Why not? I've never done anything like this before. Sort of."

"No, I mean, sleep in the dead guy's bed?"

"Well I'm quite certain they've changed the linens." Pressed himself into the wall, peered behind the wooden cabinet, stood on tiptoe to run his fingers along the dusty top.

"That's not what I mean. That's bad luck, man. It's just…"

"Creepy," finished Cho.

"Yeah, creepy."

"People die all the time. Besides," Down on hands and knees again, feeling the underside of the bookcase now. " I'm used to it."

'Huh?"

Cho kicked him in the ankle.

"Ow! Oh…right, sorry."

"No worries." Jane stood and shook his head. "Nothing. Hm."

"What are you looking for?" asked Rigsby.

"Porn," said Cho.

"Yeah," said Jane. "Fr. Tim loved books, that much is certain. If he ever looked at pornography, my guess would be print, not electronic. I could be wrong though."

Rigsby made a face. "You think there's a sexual component?"

"Just an angle. Seems a logical first step, yeh? I'd like to check Angelino's room next if—"

They were interrupted by the pealing of bells. Jane paused to notice the fact that his stomach was growling considerably, and tried to remember the last time he'd eaten anything. It was dinnertime, he'd slept through lunch and now he was hungry. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bag of peanuts, tossed them to Rigsby.

"The bells mean food." He grinned. "It's Pavlovian. Wonderfully effective."

Rigsby frowned as he looked at his partially-nibbled baggie. "You stole my peanuts."

"What if the bells mean prayers?" Cho raised a single brow. "Or mass?"

Jane stared at him.

"Priests shouldn't steal," muttered Rigsby, putting the baggie to his mouth and downing it to the last dregs. "It's a sin."

"Do you think it could be mass?" Jane's eyes were growing wide as his imagination took hold. "Do you think they'll ask me to say mass? Now, wouldn't that be something?"

"I'd convert," said Cho. "Just to see it."

"This could get complicated."

"You're living La Vida Loca, Father," grinned Rigsby, mouth full. "Go crazy."

"Gotta run. Peace be with you, my children." And he disappeared out of the room.

"And also with you," mumbled Rigsby, licking the salt off his fingers. "Jane better pray there isn't a God. Otherwise, he's gonna be in big trouble."

Cho grinned and the pair of them headed out the door.

_**End of chapter 4**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Sacraments in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 5**_

He made it down in reasonable time, all things considered. He had not been shown the way to the dining hall, again had no idea what to expect when he found it. Would it be cafeteria-style or a kitchen, would there be one long table or many small? Would they pass the plates or serve themselves? This undercover thing would be so much easier if he only knew what he was supposed to be doing. When you were flying by the seat of your pants, crashing and burning was a very real possibility.

Fortunately, the dining rooms were located in close proximity to the residences, all in the same wing of the cathedral, and the smells of cooking actually directed him better than any map in the world. He passed through what was obviously a communal lounge, with couches, bookcases, a video library and a large flat-screen TV. The sounds of voices drew him onward, and when he pushed open the large carved double-doors, an unexpected site met his eyes.

It looked like a family, sitting down to a meal. The bustle, the conversation, the passing of the water jug and the salad. Most surprising.

It was in fact very like a large Italian kitchen, with the cook on one side of the room, and a large sideboard directly beneath an open pass-through window. Bowls of piping hot food and stacks of dinnerware, cutlery wrapped in red napkins, glasses and mugs and carafes of coffee completed the set. He wondered if this was standard fare in all churches, or just the cathedrals, where multiple priests lived and worked.

"Father Patrick, there you are. Come join us!" It was Alvarez. There were 4 other men at the table, Meeks and 3 that Jane hadn't yet met. Alvarez made introductions, an acolyte by the name of Brother Domenic, a Records Clerk named Derek, and an Administrative Assistant named Bob, the latter pair only staying for dinner. None of them intrigued Jane, so he promptly forgot all about them in favour of the ham.

"Forgive us, but we've already given thanks to God for our supper."

"That's okay." Jane ambled over to the sideboard, his stomach protesting its neglect. He snagged a plate, spooned or scooped a little bit of everything, as well as a glass and cutlery and moved to a free chair at the end of the table.

He was about to dig in when he felt 5 pair of eyes on him.

He recovered quickly, however, crossed his arms and placed the knife and fork which were already in his hands on the opposite sides of the plate. "Old School," he said by way of explanation, and folded his hands as if to pray.

There was silence in the dining room until he said "Amen."

"Father Patrick is a Carolinian," said Meeks, in between his potatoes.

"Dennis…" Jane began, but Alvarez cut him off.

"Dennis, how many times must I tell you? There is no such Order as the Carolinians," he said authoritatively. "What_ is_ your affiliation, brother?"

Jane, as always, was light on his feet. "I hate to admit it, gentlemen, but technically you are all suspects in a double homicide. I simply cannot discuss myself, or my role in this case, with any of you. In fact, even staying here is a conflict of interest. I should be in a hotel."

Divert and distract. Worked every time. Only Alvarez kept his gaze steady. Jane grinned at him.

"Dennis says he hears noises at night. My, my, these yams are tasty. Aren't these yams tasty? Sweet, yet salty. MmMm. Does anyone else hear noises at night?"

"Brother Dennis has an over-active imagination." Alvarez smiled with his mouth. His eyes were flint.

The young acolyte cleared his throat. "I thought I heard something, once…"

"Oh?" Jane smiled at him. "Please tell me."

"Just," Brother Domenic seemed uncomfortable. Glancing at Alvarez, Jane could imagine why. "Sometimes, the bells… at night, sometimes they make odd sounds. Not chiming, just…"

"Bumping," said Dennis.

"Yes, bumping." He quickly looked down at his ham, played with his potatoes. "I've only heard it a few times, though. It's probably the wind."

Jane looked at Alvarez. "You have two bell towers, yeh?"

"Yes, one of the finest architectural features of the cathedral." The dark eyes were glittering, steady, strong. "But alas, they are fully automated."

"Oh," said Jane. _That was unexpected._ "No bell ringer?"

"We are not Notre Dame. We have no hunchback to speak of. Although the bishop _is_ looking a little stooped these days…"

The others cracked up at the joke, but Alvarez held up his hands. "No, no, forgive me. I should not joke at His Grace's expense. I will confess it to him when he returns tomorrow."

The others breathed a collective sigh of relief. Jane cocked his head. That's right, the _Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament_ was the seat of the Diocese of Sacramento, the capital of California. It was an important church. It had a bishop. He racked his memory. Bishop Lino Silvaggio, instated 15 years ago or thereabouts.

He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. "And how long has Bishop Silvaggio been away?"

Jane waited to see if his gamble paid off, if his memory did indeed serve him correctly. If not, he was banking on the fact that he could probably outrun all of them.

"3 days," said Alvarez. It was Jane's turn to breathe a sigh of relief. His memory was intact. No need to question. He was a consultant with the CBI, the enforcement arm of the Department of Justice and the partner of the Attorney General. That was all the authority he needed. He could do whatever he pleased.

Hell, he could even say a mass if it struck him to do so.

"Where did he go?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss the Bishop's activities with one who should be in a hotel." The undercurrent was dark, a warning.

Jane smiled again, but the tension had already settled on the table like a shroud.

They finished the meal in relative peace and small talk. Jane excused himself and beat it back to his room.

________________________________________

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not talking to you."

"When you tell me you're not talking to me, you're technically talking to me."

"Shut up."

"An apology isn't much of an apology if it just bounces around inside your head. It actually has to come out of your mouth to be legal."

"An apology also isn't much of an apology if you're not really sorry and you would still do it all over again if you had the chance."

"Well. That is a good point."

There was silence for a moment as Jane shifted the cell phone to the other hand. He was stretched out on Pius' bed, this time horizontally, back against the wall, feet and brown shoes crossed and dangling over the edge, swinging.

"So. What are you wearing?"

"_Jaaane…!"_

"Aaah, gotcha. Just kidding. How far do these guys go back?"

"How did you know they went back?"

He grinned. "It's like a coven of witches around here. They are so terrified of each other. 'Bell, Book and Candle', sweet potato, ham…"

He could hear her laugh. It made him feel good to make her laugh.

"Thirty-five almost forty years," she said. "Van Pelt is still going through the records, but I had her start from the early years and work her way forward, rather than the other way around. Alvarez and Ricci studied at St. Stephen's Catholic Seminary in Santa Barbara, and they all apprenticed in the Diocean seat of that city, _Holy Mother of the Annunciation—"_

"_Holy Mother of the Annunciation_," Jane repeated. "That would make a good swear."

She snorted. "…and then they went their separate ways, until Bishop Silvaggio was instated, and he brought the three of them back together again."

"Knowingly, or unknowingly?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him. No scratch that. Minelli doesn't want you talking to the bishop."

"He doesn't? Why not?"

"I think he and his wife go to that church. I think he knows the Bishop personally."

"Is he afraid the Bishop's going to say something, or me?"

"What do you think? Speaking of which…" There was a smile in her voice. You could always tell. People talked differently when they were smiling. "Are you being good? Are you being sensitive? Politically, emotionally and spiritually correct? Priestly?"

"Yes, ma'am. Minelli is going to promote me when this is done. Maybe I'll get some benefits, dental, a nice pension. Do priests get pensions? I think Alvarez suspects, however. I need to be careful around him. Any word on Forensics, or the tech guys?"

There was a pause. "You were right about the bodies."

"You sound surprised."

"The swabs from the floor showed no traces of bodily fluids, so it's safe to say that they were killed elsewhere and moved to the apse and the altar. There was dust on their clothing."

"Dust?"

"Yeah. Old church, old dust. Eyes and ears both removed post mortem. Also, the resin flakes are consistent with those used in rosaries. They found a sliver of copper wire in Andreacci's throat."

"Copper. Interesting."

"What else, let me think…"

"Was he sexually assaulted?"

"No."

"Anything juicy on the computer?"

"No, they both appear clean. Father Angelino seemed a little obsessed with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but other than that, there were no hits on porn sites at all, in either computer. So if it were sex related, like in child abuse cases, we would have found something, emails, chat-rooms, cookies, even online research into cases such as those. But nothing…"

"Hmm. Wrong angle. I need to turn around."

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "I fell asleep this afternoon."

"What? Is that where you disappeared to?"

"I never sleep during the day."

"You never sleep period."

"I know. It was strange. I had a dream. This old man was kicking me to wake up."

"If I had dreams like that, I wouldn't sleep either." The smile had returned. He could tell. He didn't know whether to be annoyed or charmed. "Is it the strange surroundings?"

"I've slept in motel rooms with Cho and Rigsby. Believe me, Lisbon, it doesn't get any stranger than that."

She laughed again. "Well, remember, you are at the scene of a double homicide. There's still a killer running loose, one who's targeting priests. He might not know you're a fake. Be careful."

"I will, mom."

"If you feel weird, you know, get that funny feeling where the hairs on the back of your neck stand up –"

"_Piloerection."_

"Now _that_ sounds like a swear…"

He grinned._ "Arrectores pilorum. _Just brushing up on my Latin. In case they ask me to say mass."

"Oh, please don't even joke. If you feel that 'pilo-whatever', call me, 'kay?"

"So, what _are_ you wearing?"

"Good night, Jane."

"Good night, Lisbon."

He hung up, tossed the phone on the bedside table and stretched out, a little apprehensive as to what this night would bring.

_The old man smiled, reached out a hand and Jane was gone._

_**End of Chapter 5**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Sacrament in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 6**_

_The old man led him all around the cathedral, first the residential wing where the three remaining priests were living. The acolyte was sleeping soundly, but he snored. Alvarez was reading at a desk and Meeks was dreaming, restless and raw. He had even looked in on himself before they left, and he marveled at how different he looked when he slept. But then again, this wasn't real. It was a dream. All this was weird, impossible even, but such was the nature of dreams._

_Next, they toured the offices on the main floor, then the crypt and archives in the basement, before moving up to the secondary bell tower that was nearest. They didn't walk, but they moved, up, up, up the stairs to a dusty locked door. The old man smiled. Nothing but dust and cobwebs and very old bells, son. Nothing to interest a pup like you._

_Next, the sanctuary, lights dimmed, candles flickering, and when they moved towards the main bell tower, the candles all but blew out. The old man turned to him. Evil, son. Don't go looking for it. It will find you soon enough. And he spat on the ground, crossed himself and blew away_

Jane opened his eyes.

Three o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts. It was very dark in the room, and very very dark through the windows. Again, he hadn't expected to fall asleep. It just didn't happen to him. And twice within 24 hours, no less.

He rose from the bed, refreshed. He opened his overnight bag, pulled out a towel, toothbrush, toothpaste, piece of bendable wire, 4 inches long. Washed his face, brushed his teeth, patted his hair down on one side where the curls had bent up. He slipped on the jacket, straightened the collar, slid the wire in a pocket and left the room.

______________________________________

He did indeed go to the second bell tower first, since it was closer to the residential wing. It had been much easier when he was dreaming, he mused, as there were a lot of steps to climb and it was as dark as pitch. But he had been blinded once. Sight was unnecessary when you had 4 other perfectly good senses to draw upon.

By the time he reached the top, his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the lack of light, and he could tell that the doorknob had not been touched in a very long time. He brushed the metal with his fingers, felt and smelled the dust. No one had been up here for a while.

Old church, old dust, Lisbon had said.

_Nothing to interest a pup like you._ He grinned to himself. Couldn't ever remember being called a pup by anyone. Must have, once, and it had stuck in his subconscious, waiting for a chance at expression. He liked it. Too bad the old guy wasn't real. He would have enjoyed getting to know him.

Quietly he made his way back downstairs, and into the sanctuary proper. The sight stopped him in his tracks.

It was breathtaking.

The dream had not done it justice. There were electric lights, but they were dimmed so low as to be nonexistent, and a hundred candles cast the vast high-vaulted room in flickering tones of russet and burnt gold. The statuary and paintings and engravings seemed to take on lives of their own – they seemed to move, look, whisper. He suddenly felt very warm and cared for. Effective, he thought to himself. The church had always been_ the_ master manipulator of human experience. This was no different.

There was another human in the room, however, a lone man mopping the floor, humming to himself. From his grey coveralls, he appeared to be a custodian, so Jane wandered up to meet him and tapped him on the shoulder.

The man almost jumped out of his skin.

"Oh, oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the man gasped, panting and pulling the ear-buds out of his ears. "You scared the livin' crap out of me! Don't you know you don't do that to people? Not when there's a frickin' murderer on the loose! Jesus, Mary and Joseph…"

Jane smiled. "I'm truly sorry. Didn't see the buds." He held out his hand. "Patrick."

"Joseph."

"Really?"

"Really, jackass. It's a name. Go look it up."

Jane's eyes danced. This was not the old man from his dream, but honestly, it could have been a cousin.

The man, who couldn't have been more than 50 but looked a good 20 years older, leaned on the handle of his mop. "Ain't you the exorcist? Dennis told me there was an exorcist come to cleanse the building."

"No," said Jane, still grinning. Dennis sure had a big mouth. He talked to a lot of people. "I'm actually more like a detective."

"A priest detective. Hm, didn't they have a show 'bout that, back in the '70s?"

"I think that was a rabbi."

"Same thing. Makes no difference to me, s'long as I get paid."

"My sentiments exactly. May I ask you a few questions?"

"That's what detectives do, ain't it?"

"Good point. How long have you worked at the cathedral?"

"Hm, let's see… going waaay back you understand…" He thought long and hard. "2 months."

Jane's brows rose. "Just 2 months?"

"S'what I said, ain't it?"

"Yes, that is what you said. What happened to the former custodian?"

"Better be askin' him, ain'tcha?"

"Yes, I will. Another question. Is there anyone living in the bell tower? The first one over there?"

The man was quiet for a moment, his mouth working as if chewing on something invisible in his cheek. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't go up there. Door's usually bolted from the inside. Gives me the creeps. Dennis says it's haunted."

_From the inside? _Jane looked over at the stair that led all the way up, to the tallest tower. "Maybe it is, after all."

"Well, are you gonna pay me to stand and yabber? 'Cause I got work to do. The bishop's back today and everything's got to be spic and span. Lord fug-a-duck, like the bishop's gonna care if there's crap on the floor, or gum on the seats, or spit in the Holy Water, or who knows whatever the hell else. Ain't no one got no class anymore, that's for damn sure….." And the custodian wheeled his bucket away, muttering and cussing as he went.

Beautiful, thought Jane, more beautiful than alabaster, marble or gold. And he wondered what sort of life that man had had, what had motivated him, whom he had loved, what and whom and how much he had lost.

The sun was coming up, so it was likely closing in on 5:00 am. Really, thought Jane to himself, I should look into getting a watch. Maybe one with an alarm. He sat down in one of the pews. And a timer. Rigsby would like that. We could have fun. Or maybe one that had the times in London, Paris and Rome. And an underwater feature. Could you get a watch that took pictures, or accessed your emails, or connected to the Internet? He hadn't owned a watch in a long time. He should really look into it.

As he sat, leaning forward, arms on the back of the pew in front, chin on hands, he allowed his eyes to take it all in, especially the crucifix, hanging from the ceiling. It was gruesome, he marveled, but that was the crux of it. So much beauty, so much pain. So much wealth bound up in lives of poverty. Life and death intertwined, inseparable, one. That was the appeal he realized, the strength and eternal power of life, celebrating, ritualizing, sanctifying the darkness and inevitability of death. One man for many, they believed. They would be safe because someone else had died.

The singing started around 5:30, rising from somewhere deep within the cathedral. Men's voices, rising and falling in minor keys, Latin and Greek and very very orthodox. Jane closed his eyes, allowing the sound to move him, to lift and carry him up and out of the pew, to the very stars, the dawning sun and beyond.

"Are you praying, brother?"

He opened his eyes to find Alvarez sitting next to him. Odd, he hadn't heard him approach. This place was getting to him. Better get the case solved and get out while he could.

"Ah, no. Meditating."

"It is almost the same. You are carrying a heavy burden. It weighs you down and torments you. You have no rest for your soul."

Jane smiled. He never liked it when people cold-read him. "Ah," he said theatrically. "Is there ever true rest for the soul, outside the arms of God?"

"If you are outside the arms of God, Father Patrick of the CBI, then you should not be wearing that collar."

Jane looked at him this time. The man was serious. Dead serious.

"You are tormenting Father Dennis."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. But you're right, something, or someone, is tormenting Father Dennis. He struggles with his faith, with obedience to your rules."

"Obedience is a privilege, as well as a duty."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"You mock our ways. Your faith has been driven from you."

"Oh, I mock a lot of things. It's nothing personal."

"God will not be mocked. Live how you wish, but do what you came to do, and leave quickly. You disturb my soul and the souls of those in my care." And with that, he rose to his feet, made the sign of the cross over Jane and walked away. The music rose and fell and Jane felt like sinking.

So much beauty, so much pain. Life and death intertwined, inseparable, one, in this gold and stained glass tomb, a lost and dying lifestyle for lost and dying men. And Patrick Jane realized he was just as lost and perhaps just as dying and maybe just maybe, he belonged here as much as they did.

_**End of Chapter 6**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Sacraments in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 7**_

The _Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament_ was open for business.

People had begun streaming into the cathedral at 6:30am. The yellow tape had come off the doors once Forensics had given the 24 hour all-clear, and various staff, from office women to gift shop merchants to altar boys preparing for mass all ushered past him as he sat in the same pew, taking it all in. He had deliberately missed the call for breakfast. The thought of being next to Alvarez on an empty stomach didn't sit well with him, and he wondered at his sudden rush of nerves.

It was unlike him.

It was the guilt, he told himself. This place just breathed guilt. Penance, contrition, confession, propitiation. He understood it too well. He lived there too. As he watched the people, the worshippers, the prayers, the sinners and the saints parade before him, placing candles, crossing themselves, touching statues and swinging rosaries, he could practically taste the guilt on them. All manner of sins were here, from lying and tax evasion to adultery and theft. There was all manner of addictions showcased here, drug and alcohol, sex and approval.

It would make him crazy to work here.

His cell phone rang and he picked up, not caring that people were glaring as they tried to pray. He had changed the ring-tone to _"Devil With a Blue Dress,"_ just for fun. It was Lisbon on the line.

"Good morning, my child."

"Can it, Jane. Grace found something last night."

"Oh?" He leaned backwards, stretching one arm out along the back of the pew, making certain no one would sit close. "Tell me."

"This wasn't in the files, but it was in a Criminal Records cross check she ran of the years, the city and the church…"

"Yes, yes, what? Go on."

He could hear her laugh softly. "Hold your horses, padre. Patience is a virtue. In 1974, a family was found murdered in their trailer park home in Santa Barbara. Eduardo and Melina Noriega. They had a 17 yr old daughter Adelia, and two sons, 15 yr old Celio and 8 yr old Cruz. They were sometime parishioners of _Our Mother of the Holy Annunciation Church_. They were found bound to their beds, and had died of blood loss and internal hemorrhaging. There was religious paraphernalia all around the trailer –"

"Such as?"

"Holy water, crucifixes, rosaries, but no prints were found. The case is still considered open, but since the Noriegas were illegal immigrants, there was never a push to close it."

An old woman was sitting next to him, scowling. He smiled at her. She made the sign of the cross at him and kept scowling. Jane stood up, began to pace up and down in front of the altar.

"And our boys have history in that place."

"Exactly. They were all apprenticing at that very church at the same time."

"Well, it's not exactly motive, but the connection is undeniable."

"And get this, guess who the senior priest in residence was at the time?"

Jane frowned. "Not Pius…"

"Better. Lino Silvaggio."

"Ooh, this is rich, Lisbon."

"The problem is that it's all circumstantial. There's nothing to tie them to those murders, and nothing to tie them to _these_ murders…"

"Bah. We've closed cases on less." Another woman poked him in the shoulder, put her finger to her mouth, and shushed him loudly. Jane ignored her and kept pacing.

"And Jane, there's one more thing."

"This just gets better and better. Oh, wait --"

"Jane, this is important –"

There was a rush from the crowd, as all heads turned to the large triple doors. Sunlight streamed in, and a group of men entered, backlit and glowing. One led the way, stooped and shuffling, dressed in flowing white and scarlet.

"Jane!"

"Gotta go." He folded the phone over her voice, calling his name, but it had to be done. Lisbon could wait.

The Bishop was in the house.

________________________________

The man was old, round, silver and stooped. He swung his crosier staff like a cane, and Jane had no doubt that the man needed it. He had sharp dark eyes, hidden deep within soft folds, a prominent nose and small mouth, lips pursed tight. He looked as if he was marching somewhere with a purpose, no time to waste and dreading all the little inconveniences along the way.

People stood to watch, reached out hands as he passed, made the sign of the cross in his wake. All but Jane, who stood with hands clasped behind his back, marveling at the sight of human reverence. The small man's eyes seemed to be scanning the crowd, and when those same eyes spied Jane, they locked and he and his entire entourage changed course.

Jane rocked back on his heels. This was going to be interesting.

"You," sputtered the bishop as he lurched to a stop directly in front of the consultant. He poked a finger into Jane's chest. "You are the exorcist, yes?"

"That's not an Italian accent," said Jane. "It sounds Polish."

"There will be no exorcisms in my parish."

"Your name is very Italian. Where does the Pole come in?"

"We have no need of your Order here. Begone, demon."

Jane spread his hands wide. "I'm just here to find the killer of Timothy Andreacci and Angelino Ricci. I don't want to exorcise anyone. It's all phooey if you ask me."

The small eyes squinted. There was intelligence in there somewhere, Jane could tell, and the man reached up to pat his cheek, one, two, three times. They weren't gentle pats. They left a mark.

"Ah. The face of an angel doing the work of the devil. Come with me." And with that, Bishop Lino Silvaggio turned and lumbered towards the office wing, his entourage falling in behind him.

The devil in the pinstriped waistcoat followed, grinning wickedly all the way.

_______________________________________

"Sit."

"I'll stand."

"I said sit," the bishop growled.

"Nope. Standing. Free will. Original sin and all that."

"Pah. Demon-spawn." The old man shuffled around to sit with a huff in a large, over-stuffed leather chair by the fireplace in his sanctum. "It's cold in here. Turn on the fire, child of hell."

"Ah ah," Jane grinned. "Turn on the fire, _please,_ child of hell.'"

The old man waved derisively. Jane reached up, switched the dial and an gas fire sprang up obediently.

The bishop narrowed his eyes to study the 'exorcist.' He shook his head. "Who sent you and what do you want?"

"You know very well who sent me. And as for what I want, I think I will pull up a chair. Fires make me feel chatty, cozy, you know, like family."

Naturally, a second over-stuffed leather chair was waiting nearby. Jane wondered how many of the bishop's fireside chats included the words _demon-spawn_ and _child of hell._

"You work for the police?"

"I consult. For the California Bureau of Investigations. Here…" He reached into his pocket, pulled out his ID. The bishop took it, studied, studied Jane's face, snorted, gave it back.

"I'm just helping out with the investigation."

"So how is it going, hell-son?" It wasn't question as much as cattle-prod.

"Well, your boys are not child molesters."

"I resent that!"

"Oh? You resent the fact that they are _not _child molesters?"

"Your mother was a whore. My priests are pure."

Jane shook his head. The bishop, the custodian... And Minelli had been worried about _him?_

"How was Santa Barbara?"

It was a guess, but judging by the resultant snarl, a good one.

"That is none of the devil's business."

"Oh really," Jane leaned back now, stretched his legs, laced his hands across his belly and waggled his feet by the fire. "I think it was all the devil's business, what happened 35 years ago in Santa Barbara, yeh? Why don't you confess, Lino? I hear it's good for the soul."

The old man puffed and grunted, but he made no defensive response. _Interesting, _thought Jane. Right to the chase.

"They were young and foolish. They thought they could do no wrong."

"Young, foolish men are like that."

"That horrible movie had just come out. Every priest thought he was God. I curse Hollywood and their demon films."

"What movie?"

"You should know."

"Ah," Jane grinned. "The Exorcist."

Silvaggio spat on the carpet, and Jane suddenly remembered the custodian. _Like the bishop's gonna care if there's crap on the floor, or gum on the seats, or spit in the Holy Water…. _If this weren't so horrific, it would have been hilarious.

"So they killed the Noriegas."

"They were trying to save them, to save their eternal souls."

"I thought only God could do that."

"As I said, they were foolish. It was that movie."

Jane gazed at the bishop. He had hidden this truth for over 30 years. He had known and he had kept silent. Horrific.

"Why did you protect them?"

"They confessed, demon, repented of their sins. Prayed for the souls of those they had slain, made penance, a lifetime of penance." The sharp old eyes were trained on him. "They have paid for their crimes, devil kin, they have paid."

Jane waved a hand in the air. "Oh, I don't really think so. They lived, had careers, made friends, ate dinners, watched TV, cyber-stalked celebrities. No, I don't think they paid at all. Until now."

He rose to his feet, strolled to the door, paused and looked back. The bishop looked small in the over-stuffed chair.

"I'll arrange to have Alvarez taken into protective custody immediately."

The old man looked up. "Alvarez? Why Alvarez?"

"Well he was the third, yeh? Angelino, Timothy and Jorge…"

"No, no, no. Jorge Alvarez had nothing to do with the deaths. Nothing at all."

"It was just the two of them?"

"Yes. Just the two."

Jane frowned. "Truly?"

"On my word as a man of God."

Jane thought that one over. He opened he door, but stopped yet again. "Oh, one more thing. What happened to the last custodian?"

"Ask Alvarez. He fired him."

"Hmm." He looked back, threw a glance at the suddenly small old man, waggled his fingers in the air. "I'll 'begone' now."

"Go to hell," the bishop grinned. "Where you belong."

Jane smiled and closed the door behind him.

_**End of Chapter 7**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Sacraments in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 8**_

The morning mass was beginning.

He strolled out across the front aisle, cutting deliberately in front of the altar where Alvarez and Meeks were performing the sacrament. The cathedral was packed, no doubt due to the scandal of two murdered priests and a bishop in the house. Jane shook his head. Holy motivations and perverse. Fascinating.

He turned and plopped himself in the front row, stretched out his legs and folded his arms behind his head to watch. Readings and responses, litanies and latin, it was well-rehearsed, perfectly timed, the same ritual performed over and over every day of the week, every month of the year, in every city in every country, world without end amen.

The sacramental robes that Alvarez and Meeks were wearing were white with scarlet and gold chasubles, the image of a cross, emblazoned across their chests. Golden chalices were raised, chants sung in minor keys, incense swung and bells rung. Jane shook his head again. The symbolism was mind-boggling, the effect hypnotic, but on many levels he could see it meeting the deep-seated human need for ' something more.'

Meeks kept stealing glances at him from his celebration of the Eucharist. Clearly Jane's presence made him nervous, especially sprawled out as he was like a cat in the stained glass sun. Jane waved at him to catch his attention _– I need to talk to you_ – he mouthed overdramatically, enjoying the man's obvious discomfort. At one point, Meeks almost dropped the chalice he was holding, and Alvarez glared at him, then at Jane, a look of holy wrath in his eyes.

More bells, more chanting, and the entire congregation stood, all but Jane. They began to surge forward, two rows in single file, and Jane watched in amazement as they were fed like baby birds, tiny bits of white wafer. The Eucharist. The body of Christ. And the cup, which symbolized the blood. No, that was Protestantism. This was a Catholic rite. To them, it became the real deal at the tinkling of a bell.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the priests filed out of the sanctuary, and people rose to show respect. Jane rose then too and trotted out after them, ignoring the glares of the worshippers and penitents. It took awhile to find them, but finally he caught up with the pair in a vestibule as they prepared to remove their ceremonial garments.

"Hey," he clapped Alvarez on the arm. "That was great. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. However, your pronunciation of the Latin is a little off. I could give you pointers. Why did you fire the old custodian?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The old custodian. Why'd you fire him? Hoo boy, that new guy has a mouth on him, doesn't he? What a card."

"He was stealing."

"Ah. And you are lying. How much did you know about the exorcism of the Noriega family in 1974?"

The fury that had been about to unleash itself froze on the priest's face, and Jane wondered for a split second if he was about to get punched once again in the performance of his duties.

Alvarez released a long deep breath. "I have work to do," the man growled, and turned away, lifting the stole from his shoulders and folding it with great care.

"Sure, great, no problem. I'm just going to borrow Dennis here for a minute, 'kay?" He swatted Meeks on the arm. "Come on Dennis. Let's play Hardy Boys and go check out the bell tower."

Alvarez swung around, the folded cloth still in his hand whipping through the air with force, just missing Jane's face. "You…go…home…now. You cannot stop the carriage of justice."

"Whoa," Jane back-pedaled, hands up, eyes wide. "Justice? Who's justice are we talking about? God's? Your's?"

Alvarez leaned in close, dark eyes glittering. "God's. Vengeance always belongs to God."

"God doesn't use rosaries and copper wire and scalpels to do his dirty work, Jorje. Men do. These murders are the acts of men, not angels, not demons. Men."

"Leave my people alone." He turned to Meeks. "Father Dennis, you have work to do."

The priest spun on his heel and stormed off, leaving silence in his wake.

Jane smiled as if nothing had happened and turned to Meeks. "So. Coming?"

"No," said Dennis. "I don't want to."

"Come on, Dennis. It'll be fun."

"I don't like that kind of fun."

"Just take your wrist, Dennis. You'll be fine."

"I don't want to go to the bell tower. You can't make me"

Jane sighed, suddenly feeling guilt for upsetting this delicate soul. "I'm not going to make you go to the bell tower, Dennis. I'll go myself. It's quite alright."

Alarmed, Meeks grabbed his arm. "Don't go to the bell tower, Father Patrick. Please."

"I don't believe in ghosts, Dennis. Nor spirits nor demons. Only flesh and blood."

"Joseph says there is evil in the bell tower. I know he's right. There's evil in the bell tower. There's evil in every heart."

Jane smiled sadly, put a hand on Meeks' shoulder. Meeks looked at it in horror, as if the hand would burst into flame. "Calm down, Dennis. Breathe deeply, be still. You're safe."

"Don't tell me I'm safe. You don't know that. You just don't know."

"You're right. I don't know that. I won't tell you that. I'm sorry, Dennis, I don't mean to frighten you." And Jane meant it. Dennis Meeks was unstable, fragile, broken. He was a shattered man, trying to put the pieces of his life together through the rites and rituals of the church. It was a crutch, not unlike work, drugs or therapy, external forces that could support you until your life began to behave and give you back the illusion of control. They were not so dissimilar, he and Meeks. One just hid it better.

"I'm sorry, Dennis. I'll try not to bother you anymore. You can go now."

"Go," said Meeks, his own hand still clutching Jane's arm. "Go in peace."

"That's right."

"Go in peace in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost."

"That's right. You can let go now, Dennis."

"...let go..."

"Dennis, let go of my arm. Now."

Blinking, the priest did as he was told. He seemed to have forgotten where he was. He smiled briefly, that same shy, furtive smile as before, and he reached out to shake Jane's hand.

"Goodbye, Father Patrick. I hope you don't get killed."

"Me too, Dennis."

And with that, Dennis Meeks turned and walked stiffly away down the hall after Alvarez.

Jane shook his head, saddened to his core. But the bells began ringing, chiming the stroke of noon, and Jane promptly forgot about the priest and his sad desperate ways, and slid his eyes toward the sound of the bells.

He just couldn't wait anymore. The bell tower was calling.

He spun on his heel and trotted down the hallway to the first transet, turned right and strolled passed the altar and baptismal, where already another crowd was gathering to join the bishop in his 1:00 mass. Through the second transept and another right, down the hallway where the large wooden door to the first bell tower waited for him.

His stomach was growling yet again. Oh, that's right. No breakfast, and now no lunch. He seriously needed to start taking care of himself, or he'd starve to death before he killed Red John.

He paused at the doorway to the stair.

That was the first time in 24 hours that he had thought of Red John. In fact, he hadn't even thought of his wife or daughter either in that time. No flashbacks, no nightmares, no creeping sadness, sudden rage or gnawing fear, and he didn't know whether that was a good thing or not. It was this place, it had to be, the spirit of suggestion, the psychology of the power of prayer, the fellowship of the men, the atmosphere, the music. He was losing himself here, his purpose, his plan, his "self" and he needed, like Lisbon, Alvarez and Silvaggio had suggested, to get the hell out of here as soon as he could.

He smiled sadly. Grace Van Pelt would think this was a good thing. She would say that the presence of God was working on his life, healing, rebuilding and restoring. Like Dennis Meeks, shattered but rebuilding. Just like Meeks. He shook his head.

If that were the case, he would fight it tooth and nail.

He took a deep breath and pushed open door that led to the belltower.

_**End of Chapter 8**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Sacraments in Scarlet **

_**Chapter 9**_

With Patrick Jane, curiosity always got the better of caution. It was simply his nature. The desire to know, to figure out, to apply his formidable mind and come out the victor. It was like breathing for him, like the unstoppable beating of his heart, and it had gotten him in and out of trouble his entire life. He had never given much credence to the adage, "Curiosity killed the cat." He wasn't, after all, a cat.

As he stepped inside the stairwell and closed the large wooden door, he remembered Joseph's words and looked up. There was indeed a metal dead-bolt lock, recently installed high up on the doorframe. It allowed you to lock the door from the inside. If someone were in fact hiding up there, it would be a useful feature. The fact that it was unbolted now meant he was probably, relatively and momentarily safe.

He looked up the long dark winding stair. Small windows in red-stained glass let in a minimum of light. It smelled of dust and old oil. There was no handrail, so as he began to climb, he ran his fingers along the limestone for balance. He was quite out of breath by the time he reached the top.

As expected, the doorknob was clean. Someone had been here and recently.

He put an ear to the door. No sound, just the faint echo of humming bells. The metal would be vibrating for minutes after the chiming, he knew. An after-effect of resonance. But no sounds of human activity, no coughing, shuffling, or breathing. Just silence.

He put a hand on the doorknob, twisted. Locked, as expected. Pulling the 4 inch wire from his pocket, he inserted it into the old fashioned locking mechanism, and within 3 seconds, it clicked open. He gently pushed on the door, and stepped inside.

The room was windowless and dark, and very much like he would have imagined. Just like the bell tower of Notre Dame, it was old and dusty and mechanical looking, with wooden beams, metal girders and a clicking automated bell ringing system that looked like something out of the industrial revolution. The bells themselves were not here, housed even higher up in the tower itself. In the center of the room was a dark 5-foot wide hole in both ceiling and floor, with long cables that reached above and below. A fall down that hole would be a very long drop indeed.

He moved into the room, hands in his pockets, eyes straining to adjust to the near total darkness. There were old chairs upended on old tables, old ladders leaning against old desks, dreary old shelves lining the walls, containing paint cans, varnish, glue. It was a storeroom, nothing more, and he felt a twinge of disappointment. No Quasimodo in the bell tower, no ghost to scare off the Hardy Boys, nothing. Nothing at all.

He spied a candlestick and set of matches on one of the dusty tables. Migrated toward it, lit the candle and the room was instantly illuminated in a swath of flickering gold.

On a hunch, he approached the shelves, raised the candlestick high.

A row of glass jars, containing paintbrushes, screws, bolts, cogs, turpentine, eyeballs, ears…

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell.

"Hey Lisbon."

"We were just heading over. What's up?"

"I found some eyeballs."

There was a heartbeat of silence. "You found some eyeballs."

"And some ears. I know who the third victim is going to be."

"Okay. Tell me but don't hang up. I need to tell you what else Van Pelt dug up."

"Fire away."

"You first."

The eyes were staring at him, the ears listening, both floating in clear liquid that he could only assume to be Holy Water. "'And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell itself.'"

"Jane, English?"

"Old English, actually. The Bible somewhere, James I think. I did read it once, you know. Anyway, the tongue will be the tongue of Bishop Lino Silvaggio."

"I'll buy that. Why?"

"Well, he's got a nasty one, that's for sure. And he knew about the Noriega murders, knew his priests had committed it, but kept silent for 35 years."

"Speak no evil."

"Exactly. Your turn."

"One of the Noriegas lived."

"What? Brilliant. Whom?"

"The youngest, Cruz. He was 8 at the time, was admitted to the pysch ward at Santa Barbara Mercy in a state of catatonia. Spent most of his life in and out of institutions, was arrested several times for possession, petty theft, small time stuff."

Jane swung the light around the room. "Traumatized as a kid. It would be interesting to know what he remembers." Across the desks, ladders, beams and walls. "Where is he now?"

"There's the thing. He was released from Santa Barbara County Pen 11 years ago, and disappeared. He never checked in with his parole officer, but he wasn't a high risk offender and the system was swamped, so he just got lost somewhere, and hasn't surfaced since."

"11 years ago? Get Van Pelt to look up whether he took any correspondence courses while in prison. I'm pretty sure I know where he is – Oh hang on, wait a minute, well well, look at this…"

Something had caught his eye in the darkness, a darker darkness, set into the wall.

"Gotta check something out. Call you right back." And for the second time that day, he folded the phone over her protests.

A door. It was another door.

He released a big breath and opened it.

_____________________________________________

"Dammit. I hate when he does that." She glanced over at Cho, seated in the passenger seat. They were on the Sacramento Business Loop, heading downtown towards the cathedral. "Get Van Pelt on the line. Jane's found eyeballs."

"Hm," said Cho. "Is it me or is this whole case just creepy?"

"It's more than creepy," she muttered. "This is like a really bad movie."

"_Murder in the Cathedral,"_ said Cho, staring at the road ahead. "_Death by Denomination... __Priest Wars_… _Death Mass 2000… " _He looked at her._ "Patrick Jane and the Temple of Doom."_

"Shut up," she growled and stepped on the gas.

________________________________________

Another flight of stairs. Jane sighed and began to climb. He was certainly getting his workout today. His legs were aching. These stairs were wooden, very narrow, very unsteady and every step creaked and groaned under his weight. If there had been an element of surprise, he had lost it long ago.

This was the highest place in the cathedral, he was certain of it, except for the bells themselves. A tiny attic room, no larger than a walk-in closet, and it was very hot, dry and stuffy. Actually, it smelled bad, and he resisted the urge to plug his nose. He was still holding the candlestick and wanted the other hand free, just in case.

Again, no windows, but this time there was a mattress on the floor against the far wall. Rosaries and crucifixes on chains hung from the black ceiling, a chair serving as a night table, with a bible, scarlet cord and candle sitting atop. A tarp covered something in the corner, and slowly Jane tiptoed over to it and poked it with a finger.

He didn't need to be psychic to know what was underneath.

Gingerly, he peeled back the tarp and held it aside, revealing a dried and withering body in gray coveralls, eyes bulging, mummified mouth open in a silent scream. The original custodian. A rosary was wrapped around his desiccated throat, half embedded in the flesh, but at least the fellow still had his tongue. He threw the tarp back over it. As Cho would say, creepy.

There were photos taped to the wall, and articles from the Internet, printed and highlighted with yellow. He brought the candle up, peered closer for a better look.

With a frown, he realized that the little hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

Just as Lisbon had advised, he reached for his cell phone, but he was yanked off his feet and thrown backwards across the room with almost inhuman force, hitting the wall by the stairs with a thud. Before he could even catch his breath, a roundhouse kick struck him in the belly and sent him crashing back down the rickety steps to the wooden floor below, shooting stars and blackness.

_**End of Chapter 9**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Sacrament in Scarlet**

_**Chapter 10**_

Teresa Lisbon and Kimball Cho flashed their badges at the ushers who were trying to make them wait. The Rev. Monsignor Jorge Father Alvarez was presiding over the 1:00 mass, and t_he Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament_ was full of parishioners. The ushers were insistent but Lisbon was not in the mood to argue California articles of jurisdiction, so she brazenly pushed past them and into the sanctuary proper, Cho dutifully dogging her every step.

The sanctum of the bishop was down a long wide hallway, the same one that eventually led to Alvarez's office and the residences. The office administrator looked up politely as they entered.

"We need to speak to the bishop as soon as possible," Lisbon muttered, showing her badge yet again. She hadn't met this person during her initial investigation yesterday, and the woman's polite smile changed ever so slightly.

"I'm afraid the bishop is unavailable to speak with you at the moment," she said with a tiniest hint of condescension. "You may not have noticed, but he's the one performing the mass."

Lisbon glanced at Cho, who frowned. She turned back to the woman. "Father Alvarez is saying the mass."

"No, I'm afraid you're mistaken. His Grace always says the 1:00 mass when he's in the city. Which is almost always."

"Um, well, unless Fr. Alvarez has a twin brother, I suggest you go take a look." She swung an arm in the direction of the door and the woman rose most politely. Together they made their way back to the sanctuary. From the entrance to the transet, she could see Fr. Alvarez, holding high a golden chalice, wine offered as a sacrifice and remembrance, to be transmuted at the tinkling of a tiny bell.

The woman looked back in shock.

"I don't understand. He left his office not 20 minutes ago to prepare…"

Lisbon sighed and turned to Cho. "Okay, get Rigsby down here, and call for backup. We need to secure this building now."

She grabbed her phone and called Jane's number.

_______________________________________

_Devil with a blue dress, blue dress, blue dress, devil with a blue dress on_

_The old man shook him now. Boy oh boy you sure do sleep a lot for a pup. Get up now kiddo. There are things you need to be doing. The rook has got your bishop. It's going to be check and mate pretty soon. The old man shook him again. Rise and shine, son. Rise and shine._

_Unconsciousness was not all that it was cracked up to be,_ Jane thought to himself through the pounding in his brain. Not only did you have to swim through the jumble of headache, nausea and disorientation, but your pockets sang Motown and you had to deal with your own personal tour guide through dreamland. His head hurt and his back too, his palms and his knees…Oh yes, he had fallen down the stairs in the dark. Or something like that.

_Devil with a blue dress, blue dress, blue dress, devil with a blue dress on_

It came back in a rush, and he opened his eyes to candlelight. He was facedown in the main bell tower, right at the foot of the steps where he had fallen. There were flickering shadows and murmuring voices and he pushed himself up to his hands and knees, his muscles and bones protesting every movement. Looking over to the voices, he was not so surprised to see two robed men, one in white, the other in black, on the far side of the room. It all made perfect sense.

Bishop Silvaggio, kneeling on the wooden floor, candles in a small circle around him. He was praying, his crosier staff on the floor some distance away. Standing above him in cassock black was Dennis Meeks, copper-threaded rosary in one hand, tincture of holy water in the other. He was performing what Jane could only imagine was the Last Rites, the sacrament of penance, contrition and absolution granted just before death. That would be any moment now, from the looks of things.

"Dennis," said Jane, struggling to his feet. "Dennis, look at me."

No response. Even Silvaggio didn't seem to notice, so engrossed was he in his own fervent prayers. Meeks finished sprinkling with Holy Water and tucked the vial away in his robes. He caught up the rosary in both hands and placed his palms on Silvaggio's forehead.

"Go in peace. Your sins are forgiven."

"Forgiven," whispered the bishop.

Jane wondered with a slightly detached air if he even had a right to stop it. It was the culmination of 35 years of anguish and pain, of sin and of cover up and a path of vengeance that had brought them all here to this very place. He understood all too well. Who was he to stop it?

"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost."

"Amen."

"Amen." And Meeks stepped around the candles behind the stooped old man.

"Cruz," said Jane, not able to settle that debate inside himself yet. Life was, after all, life. "Cruz, I need to speak to Dennis."

At the sound of his name, Cruz Noriega looked up. It was amazing how the same face could look so different with another personality at the helm. The same lanky body, the same close-cropped graying hair, the same deeply lined, life-worn face, but the eyes were those of a different man, and that changed everything.

"They're not here," the man said.

"They?" Jane cocked his head. "Who are you?"

The man kissed the rosary, stroked it over and over in his fingers. His eyes flashed. "Celio. I am Celio Noriega."

"Celio Noriega is dead."

"Do I look dead to you, Priest?"

Jane took a step forward, waited to see what the man would do. Noriega made no moves to continue, his dark eyes fixed on the consultant with a look of defiance. His body language was altered as well. Tall, tense, predatory. It all made perfect sense.

"You're protecting your little brother, aren't you? You've been protecting him for years, until Dennis came."

"Dennis is weak. Dennis thinks God will save him, that God will protect him." Jane moved closer, not exactly sure what he should be doing, but knowing that the fact that the man was talking and not strangling was probably a good thing. "I protect Cruz. I get us food. I get us money. I find us places to live. Me. Not God. Not Dennis. Me."

Jane's eyes kept flicking down to the bishop and back to Cruz. Such an offensive man on the outside, Silvaggio now seemed resigned to his fate. Jane wondered if Red John would react the same way. Somehow, he couldn't imagine it.

"But Dennis brought you here, didn't he?" Moved around the large hole in the floor where the cables went through, past the shelves with the eyeballs and ears. Moved himself directly in front of the two men in the flickering candlelight. "He went to school when you were in jail, applied himself…your.._selves…_got his papers. He wanted a better life for Cruz, didn't he? Something better than in and out of prisons and psych wards. That's no way for a boy to live."

"Shut up, priest! You don't know what I had to do!" His voice went quiet. "You don't know…"

Jane took a deep breath. "I would like to speak to Dennis."

"Dennis is gone."

He took another step forward. He was almost within grabbing distance. "I will only speak to Dennis."

"Dennis is weak."

"Dennis, it's Patrick. I need to speak to you."

The man's face was contorting. Jane had seen it twice before in person, once in a channeling session many, many years back at the beginning of his former career (he had almost quit then – it had scared the socks off him), and another time when he had been in the psych ward and possibly under too much antipsychotic medication, so he could never really be certain if he had witnessed what he thought he had witnessed in another one of the patients. There were almost always facial ticks, coughs, rolling of eyes, of head, rapid blinking, expression change as someone else took the reins of the conversation The concept of DID had always fascinated him, infuriated him, challenged the skeptic inside of him. The submergence of one personality and emergence of another. A veritable disorder or consummate performance?

Regardless of its authenticity, one thing was clear. The personality known as Dennis was fighting for control. Jane knew what he had to do, could almost reach the man's wrists.

"I will only speak to Dennis." He stretched out his hands.

"No!"

"You are safe, Dennis. No one can hurt you. It's just you and me and Bishop Silvaggio. No angels, no demons. Just us."

"…no…"

"We are all safe."

His fingertips brushed the man's wrists.

Dennis Meeks opened his eyes.

"Father Patrick?"

Jane breathed a sigh of relief.

_Devil with a blue dress, blue dress, blue dress, devil with a blue dress on_

"NO! NO!" And Celio/Dennis/Cruz lunged forward unexpectedly, and with such force that he knocked the bishop to the ground and caused Jane to stumble backwards towards the bell cable hole in the floor. Jane swung his arms wildly to steady himself, snagged one of the cables for support. High above, a lone bell almost rang.

Jane glanced back, brows arched, then pulled with all his might.

_**End of Chapter 10**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Sacrament in Scarlet **

_**Chapter 11**_

It was near the end of the mass when the bells began to ring.

Lisbon whirled at the sound, her phone in her hand, looking up and away from the search party that had begun to assemble. "The bell tower! Jane's in the bell tower! How do we get there?"

The records clerk Derek pointed and as Alvarez raised his hands high to pronounce the benediction to the pealing of the bells, the CBI team beat it for the door.

________________________________

"It's your turn, Exorcist," growled Celio Noriega, newly restored to his brother's body. He stepped over the prone bishop and pulled out a scalpel from another cassock fold. "Your tongue will do just as well."

Jane released his hold on the cable and scrambled to the far side of the room, Noriega in slow but determined pursuit. He needed to get to the door, unlatch this one from the top and it was with sudden dread that he realized that the door at the bottom of the stair was likely bolted now as well.

Damn, how would Lisbon and the team get in?

There were more immediate things to worry about than the details of impending rescue however, things like impending death and/or impending removal of various body parts. Celio/Cruz/Dennis thought Jane was an exorcist. Exorcists had killed his/their family. This did not bode well for Patrick Jane and as he ducked a swing from the scalpel, he cursed his impetuous nature.

Curiosity might just kill this cat, after all.

Celio/Cruz/Dennis swung again and again, scalpel in one hand, rosary beads in the other, and Jane was quickly being backed into a wall, the wall with the dreary shelves. He could hear banging from far below, the crashing and rending of wood, and he knew they must have found an ax to begin the laborious process of breaking down the door. It was a solid door. It would take some time. Another swing, catching the edge of his sleeve and Jane yelped and yanked his hand back in reflex, finding his fingers brushing the dusty surface of a glass jar. Without thinking, he grabbed it as Celio lunged again, this time the scalpel tearing his shirt just below the waist-coat but Jane sprang back and brought the jar down hard on Celio's head.

There was the crack of shattering glass on bone, and eyeballs and holy water spilled all across the floor. Celio/Cruz/Dennis went down like a dog, blood springing from his scalp and water dripping from his hair, but he wasn't out. Jane contemplated the jar of ears, certain that would finish the job, but he hadn't the heart. Dennis, the broken man trying to overcome his fears through faith. Celio, the re-invented older brother, trying to survive a world where unimaginable horror was possible, and Cruz, a boy frozen, 8 years old forever, buried deep within a grown man's body. This man, these men, had suffered too much already. It was time for grace, for mercy, for peace.

With a deep breath, he gingerly stepped away, careful to avoid slipping in the water or squishing the eyeballs, and he padded over to the bishop, who was back on his knees now, small eyes wide in amazement.

"No devil, no devil you bleed…"

"Oh," Jane panted, as he looked down at his waist, a dark red stain moving across his belly. "Just a scratch. Come on, Lino," he reached down to grab the old man's arm. "Let's get you out –"

A sensation of motion like a freight train a-coming, a rushing of wind and weight and force that took him literally off his feet and down hard to the floor once again. Snarling and water and a fumbling of hands and suddenly, there were beads around his throat.

___________________________________

Rigsby swung again, one last time, and the large wooden door splintered wide enough for Lisbon to squeeze through. Cho was next, and by the time he managed to get himself in through the shattered door, his two teammates had already disappeared around the curved staircase. He debated ax or revolver, ax or revolver, shouldered the ax and began to climb as fast as his strong legs could go.

___________________________________________

Once, when he was little, before he knew how to swim, he had fallen into a river. The sensations were etched in his memory like videotape, the ache in his throat, the pressure in his chest, the popping of lights behind his eyes, the heaviness of limb and burning of muscle, all sound slowed and muddy and dark. He remembered things at that time, too, mother and father laughing, arguing, leaving, books and clowns and cards and his own quick, quick hands. He'd only been 3 but he could remember it like it was yesterday.

There was banging at the door, a woman's voice, calling his name. There was a hammering, a crashing, and splintering of wood. There was a man behind him, on top of him, his sweat sharp, his breath ragged. A sad man, he remembered that too. He couldn't hate that man, no matter what he was doing or how much it hurt. There was himself, his pulse roaring, his ears ringing, his strength waning, just like in the river when the fight dissipated and the acceptance, the whispers, the wonder of inevitability began. He saw his life-giving wife, her smiling face, his life-changing daughter, her smiling face, his life-affirming boss, her smiling face. And another smiling face, affirming and giving nothing of life, but death, only death to all things good, death only death, smiling death, and of course, the red.

Then it was gone, all gone, and he wondered with the last scrap of wonder if that was how it all ended. A thump, a release, another thump and then, gone?

Anti-climactic, much.

Air flooded back into his lungs and he was surprised at how much it hurt to breathe. His lungs tried to cough it out, cold and harsh in the burning vacuum of his chest. He opened his eyes and blinked back the lights and stars to see Celio/Cruz/Dennis' face on the floor, just inches from his own. Tried to get away from it, but there was a hand on his back, rubbing in circles, comforting, warm. Someone was shushing, humming. His muscles relaxed and he remembered his father, holding him tight until he had grown quiet and still in his arms.

"Poor little demon. Shhshh. It will be alright now. Hush hush. You are safe."

The Most Reverend Bishop Lino Silvaggio, DD, was kneeling beside him, his crosier staff in one hand, free hand rubbing his back. Jane looked up at him, aching and bewildered.

The bishop smiled, inclined the staff. "One good whack, he goes down. The second one makes sure he stays down. Fatal flaw in your plan, devil-child. You didn't hit him the second time. Don't you watch movies? Demon Hollywood gets some things right, yes?"

Jane grinned, dropped his head into his hands as Wayne Rigsby and his ax came through the big wooden door.

________________________________

Patrick Jane studied his face in the mirror. His throat, actually, finally free of the white priest's collar for the first time in days, but now, a newer, redder one in its place. The wired rosary had only just begun to cut into his flesh, but the constriction of the beads had left an impression that would take weeks to fade. His hand went deftly to his waist, which had indeed received only a scratch, but had required several stitches to help it heal. Otherwise, it might leave a scar, the doctor had said.

He rolled his eyes. The doctor was a buffoon. As if he knew anything about scars.

"Yes, yes, you are still pretty, demon-child," sang Lisbon and he turned to face her, grinning. They were in Minelli's office, the Department Chief sitting behind his desk, reviewing the file and deciding whether or not Jane's conduct was worth an official reprimand. Lisbon was watching him from a chair, and Jane wandered over and plopped himself in another.

"Demon-spawn," he said in acknowledgement, grin growing wider.

"Hell-kin."

"Whore's son."

"Thorn in the side of all things holy."

"Ooh, I never got that one. Must be the Irish in you."

"French. They're worse. They just make it sound sexy."

"Ah."

"Oh please, spare me the eschatological banter," muttered Minelli. "So tell me again why we should charge Alvarez?"

"Oh, it's obvious, isn't it? Accessory to murder." Jane waved a hand and crossed one leg over the other. "He knew what was going on all along. Probably knew about the DID, or multiple personality disorder, as it was known at the time. Noriega spent many years in institutions of one kind or another."

"Yes," said Lisbon. "His DID was documented from 1976 on. But being a minor, it was almost impossible to access his records."

"Van Pelt is good," said Minelli.

Lisbon smiled proudly. "Yes, she is, sir."

Jane smiled too. "According to Van Pelt's research, Alvarez was the one who enrolled Dennis…well, Cruz Noriega into the correspondence courses, arranged for him to start work at the Cathedral as soon as he was released, even made sure there was no records check into his name."

Lisbon nodded. "That's right. There is no official person by the name of Dennis Meeks having graduated from any Catholic seminary, correspondence or otherwise. But Cruz Noriega did, in 1998."

"Alvarez knew what had happened 35 years ago, and tried to make things right, tried to make things better for the boy. He almost did, but something made Dennis snap two months ago, and the Noriegas came back strong and fast."

Minelli steepled his fingers in front of him. "Theories?"

Jane shrugged. "I'm not sure. Something to do with the old custodian, I imagine. Perhaps the custodian found him in the secret room. He was looking exorcisms up online, had pointers pasted all over the walls."

"But he didn't actually try to exorcise anyone, did he?"

"Uuhh, no."

Minelli raised his eyebrows, asking.

"Well, I think he was curious. He was desperately trying to reconcile his new life as a priest, and his new faith in God, with the horror of what had happened to him as a child. He was fascinated with the occult, and yet repulsed at the same time. He told me his mother had called him cursed. He played with Ouiji boards. His sister read Tarot cards. Maybe the mother was the one to tip off Andreacci and Ricci at the church, and one thing led to another…"

"And the plan backfires on all of them," said Lisbon softly.

"Maybe the killings were something Dennis or Celio was thinking of doing for some time, a life-long quest for revenge that finally came to fruition. I don't know. Dennis doesn't seem like the type to plan for 35 years, but Celio, on the other hand…"

"And the custodian was a convenient person to practice on?" Lisbon again.

"Exactly. Either way, Alvarez knew about the custodian as well. He told Silvaggio the man had been stealing and had been fired."

"Hm," muttered Minelli. "But you don't think Alvarez put him up to it? Or arranged anything?"

"Nothing that concrete, I'm afraid. I think Alvarez really believes in a God who calls the shots. His version of fate, as it were."

"Alvarez wants you charged."

"Pah. He's guilty as sin. Why should we worry?"

"But the Bishop has put in a good word for you."

Jane's brows went up. "Really?"

"Really. He likes you. And knowing Lino, I'm not convinced that's a good thing." The Department Chief leaned back in his chair. "So I guess you're off the hook, Jane. _This_ time."

Jane swung out of the chair.

"And there won't be a next time, will there?"

Jane smiled, waved and disappeared out the door.

Minelli growled. "Will there, Agent Lisbon?"

Lisbon smiled, waved and disappeared out the door.

Minelli pulled out a drawer, happy to see that Shirley had placed an entire case of Tylenol in his desk. He popped a few and went back to work.

_________________________________

He followed her like a puppy all the way down to their office, where a new floor was being laid due to unexplained scrapes in the wood finish. To where Rigsby was admiring the new ax-borne calluses on his palms, and Cho was busy rebuilding his paper clip code to challenge any who would dare try crack it. To where Van Pelt, ever the computer whiz, was finishing up the records for Derek, the cute records clerk from the cathedral and as Jane passed, he noticed the photograph of a face on her screen.

"Hey, Van Pelt, who's that?"

"Hm? That? Let me see…" She peered at the name on the file along the sidebar. "Rev. Father Anthony "Pius" Bachynski. Why?"

He stared at the screen.

"Jane?" Lisbon turned back, glanced at the screen, then at Jane. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Jane grinned. "The old man. From my dream."

Lisbon's eyes grew wide. "That's him? Father Pius? That's the old guy from your dreams?"

Jane nodded, still looking at the face.

Van Pelt wiggled in her chair. "Taking a walk to 'the other side', Jane?"

He grinned. "Nah. I must have seen a photo of him somewhere. It got locked in my memory and expressed itself subconsciously."

Lisbon and Van Pelt exchanged glances.

"Of course," said Lisbon, and she disappeared into her office.

Van Pelt looked up. "You could try channeling him, you know…"

"Ridiculous. Do I look like a mark?"

"Like Lisbon said, you look like a man who's seen a ghost." She shrugged. "Maybe you have…"

She went back to work, and the photograph disappeared from the screen.

Hands in pockets, Jane ambled over to the couch, removed his jacket, folded it across the back. He dropped down into its soft leather, stretched out his legs, laced his fingers across his belly, winced as it stung from the pressure on the stitches and sighed. He was tired. He'd had a busy day, a busy few days. He felt sad for Meeks/Noriega, hoped the doctors would treat him well, although that would not be likely. Felt frustrated with Alvarez, who had tried in his own errant way to help right a wrong but turned a blind eye to the twisted heart of men. Felt elated that the cranky old bishop actually had a heart after all and thought he might pop in to visit from time to time. Felt himself drifting to the sound of conversation, ringing phones and late-night business...

_The old man was smiling at him. You're gonna be okay, son, providing you don't snooze your life away. Get up, get moving, there's pretty girls 'round here. Open your eyes, son. Check 'em out. Time for me to go. That bright white light's making me crazy. Gotta check it out. Glad I could help. See you around. And he rolled himself up like a cigarette and blew away_

Jane lay still, deciding for a change not to fight but to give in, and he smiled, said goodbye to the old man, and fell asleep on his own, and for the first time in a long, long time, he had no dreams at all.

_**The end.**_


End file.
